When you start to feel a chasm of hopelessness open just below your heart, but above the pit of your stomach, turn off the Internet.
Never apologize for eating mac n cheese.
Do something. Empty the dishwasher or do laundry or something. Enjoy the tiny blossom of pleasure that opens up in your throat as you do something productive. Enjoy it now, before it’s choked out by the crushing sense that all menial labor is futile in this age of robotics and microtechnology and that you could have spent that time adding beauty to the world or improving others’ lives.
Check your fucking privilege.
Wonder if all generations have experienced this existential angst and procrastination and weariness, or if this void of humanity is unique to our technology-saturated, screen-entranced era.
Remember that word for examining one’s own bellybutton — omphaloskepsis — and conclude that our generation is not as unique as it thinks it is.
In the face your lack of individuality, prepare tissues, bath salts, and wine for Existential Sunday.
Credit goes to Jesse Bellini for coining the term Existential Sunday.